Taking one for the Team
by ultharkitty
Summary: G1, Dysfunction AU. After 'The Revenge of Bruticus', the Combaticons have a few problems getting used to their new loyalty programming. Now with added cracky sequel with Drag Strip/Vortex, and some Blast Off/Vortex fics as well.
1. Taking one for the team

**Content Advice:** slash (of the plug'n'play variety), violence, and implied attempted noncon

**Beta: **naboru

**Summary: **After the Combaticons tried to seize control of the Decepticon forces and send Earth hurtling into the Sun, Megatron reprogrammed them to be more loyal. This is a story about what happened next.

**Notes:** This is set directly after 'The Revenge of Bruticus', so it's before Swindle sells his team mates to the squishies – hence they don't have any particular reason to hate him (too much) just yet, although he might have a few reasons not to be too fond of them. Also, I like Vortex to be very… flexible, physically, so that's how I write him. I totally fail at Serious Fiction, so this is a bit cracktastic (um, yeah, apparently I write crack that comes with a sexual violence warning).

ETA - this is a new version as of 23/08/2011. It's been well over a year and a half since I wrote the first version, and my idea of the characterisation has changed since then, so I made a few adjustments to help it slot into the Dysfunction AU properly.

* * *

.

* * *

"_What_ exactly are you doing?" Onslaught leant on the doorjamb, arms crossed.

The scene was priceless; he'd forgotten that Vortex had the potential to look guilty. Brawl lay spread-eagled over a workbench, legs dangling off one end. Vortex had frozen, poised over his team mate's open abdomen, talons deep in Brawl's innards.

"Uh," Vortex said.

"Don't stop!" Brawl wailed, kicking Vortex hard in the thigh. "It _itches_!"

"Oh Sigma, tell me he hasn't got rust," Onslaught said.

"No," said Vortex, slowly. A soft scritching sound emerged from Brawl's chest cavity. "He certainly doesn't have rust."

Onslaught sighed. "Then what's wrong with him?"

"Can't you feel it?" Brawl gasped. "Left a bit, over a bit, oh yeah, that's getting it!"

"Can't say that I can," Onslaught replied. "Vortex, I'm not going to repeat myself."

"Bit busy here," Vortex responded. He bent down, his head vanishing between the flaps of Brawl's open chest plates. His rotors spun slowly, juddering with the impact of whatever it was his hands were doing.

Onslaught waited. After a while, Vortex pinged him on a secure frequency.

/So, what is it?/ Onslaught asked.

/Our new programming,/ Vortex said. /Like someone dipped my processors in acid. Brawl's got it worse./

/Ah,/ Onslaught replied, /I see./ He approached the worktable. Brawl's head was back, a grimace on his bare faceplates. Vortex continued to scratch at the coating of his databanks, talons working along wires and connectors, scraping over circuit boards. The tank's laser core pulsed, far too close to Vortex's claws, but Brawl didn't seem to mind.

"Is that his CPU?" Onslaught asked aloud.

"Screamer thought it was a more appropriate location than his head," Vortex responded. "Ain't that right, Brawlie?"

"Shut the frag up," Brawl growled, "and _keep scratching!_"

"Huh." Onslaught didn't bother to ask how Vortex knew; the copter had a habit of finding things out. Considering Brawl's propensity for mindless violence, Starscream had probably made a wise choice. "Just don't break anything," Onslaught added.

Vortex looked up, a stray wire dangling from the corner of his mouth. One side of his visor dimmed for a moment, a wink. "Would I do a thing like that?"

* * *

.

* * *

Swindle fidgeted. Narrow freakin' bandwidth. Disgusting little planet didn't even have an Internet. What was up with that? Instead, he was forced to bounce his signal through their pathetic excuse for a networked system. No wireless pulse, no 3D input terminal. It was barbaric.

At least it got him past the ship's firewall and into the console at the Space Bridge. Technically, he wasn't meant to be able to access the intergalactic web. But here he was.

Oh, he'd kill for a good, clean link to Nebulos right now. Waiting whole astroseconds for each page to load was playing merry hell with his sensor net. And as for his focus, he could hardly tell which way was up, let alone key in the codes to access his dormant bank accounts.

He glanced at the security camera. Soundwave was bound to send the boys around sooner or later. Swindle could only hope that Thrust was right, and that Soundwave was finally on his recharge cycle.

Seriously, how long could the slagger go without downtime? It was wrong, that's what it was. Wrong and creepy and downright inconvenient.

At least the loyalty protocols didn't forbid Swindle from shopping. As far as he could tell, they simply prevented him from taking any direct action against Megatron. Not that he had any particular desire to slag their glorious leader, or to interfere with his pit-spawned master plan. He just wanted out, that was all.

At last! The final page loaded, and Swindle fought his way through the clunky GUI towards the 'select item' button. He could almost taste it; pure, discrete software purge. Beautiful. It'd see to the loyalty programming straight off, and any number of other things he'd rather not have running through his systems. Combiner programming, for example; the gestalt bond. Everything he'd love to uninstall, but couldn't.

He rubbed his hands together, and began to upload his account details.

* * *

.

* * *

"It's not _working!_" Brawl wailed. He writhed on the table, tugging at the leads which Vortex had decided - because it seemed like a good idea at the time - to hold in his mouth. "Ow ow ow ow ow! Watch where you're jabbing your hands, for frag's sake!"

"Tetchiness isn't helpful," Vortex snapped. He yelped as the outer casing of Brawl's laser core grazed across his knuckles. If only Brawl wasn't snivelling like an Autobot, he might have been in the mood to go back for seconds. As it was... that could wait. "Hold still," he said. "Unless you want to be on your back until duty cycle."

"Just make it stop!" Brawl yelled.

There was a shuffle from the corner; twin points of purple light floated in the shadows. "Stop fighting it," a bored voice said. "The discomfort will fade in a joor or so."

"The shuttle speaks," Vortex commented. Blast Off had a habit of fading into the background; it would have been deliciously creepy if only he meant anything by it. As it was, he was just plain disappointing. "I don't think Onslaught noticed you were here."

"A joor?" Brawl squirmed, his innards shifting. "That's _forever!_"

Vortex snarled, tugging hard on the leads. Stupid tank. "It's not forever. Remember the Detention Centre? _That_ was forever."

Brawl grunted in pain, and tried to snatch the nearest rotor. "Fraggin' copter!"

"That's it!" Vortex spat out the cables. "You're on your own." He slammed one of the chest plates, trapping leads and wires. Brawl howled. Vortex glared at Blast Off. "Don't fight it, you say. Just give in. What the frag are you? Neutral?"

There was a soft huff of vents, a bright glow of optics, but Blast Off didn't reply.

Vortex stalked out, transforming his hands back to normal as he went. Slagging idiot glitches. Brawl wouldn't know his own capacitor if it stood up and said hello, and as for Blast Off... Several dozen tons of wasted potential. He was so quiet, so still and calm. Capable, in his own way, but unwilling to get his hands dirty. And he was completely ignorant of the effect he had on others. The effect he _could_ have.

If it wasn't for the constant burning itch in his processor, Vortex might have been tempted to go back and educate him, but he just plain didn't feel like it. The new thought routines were distracting. Not wholly unpleasant, but alien, unwelcome. Loyalty should be earned, not forced.

"Hey, Vortex!" Ramjet called. Vortex flipped him an obscene gesture and kept walking.

"Don't," Dirge warned, but he was too late, as Ramjet stood to a parody of attention and yelled, "All hail Megatron!"

"All hail Megatron!" Vortex responded automatically, his vocaliser firmly in the grip of the new programming. The final syllable dissolved into a snarl, and he spun to face the jets, fingers twitching.

"That was really dumb," Dirge observed. He grabbed Ramjet's arm and tugged him backwards along the corridor.

"C'mon," Ramjet said. "It was funny!"

"Funny?" Vortex queried. He twisted his lips from a snarl to a smile. They hadn't seen him without his battle mask before, he might as well make the most of it.

Ramjet's grin faltered, his wings swaying.

"I can't say I found it funny," Vortex continued. "Want to know what I _do_ find amusing?"

Ramjet pulled free of Dirge and sprinted off along the corridor. Vortex paused long enough to flash Dirge a smile full of promise, then ran after him.

* * *

.

* * *

Recharge was impossible. Onslaught slumped in the chair at his desk and scrolled through old mission reports. The loyalty programming squatted in his circuits, fat and watchful, the centre of a web of influence. Tendrils spread through his wiring, branching into each micron of his cybernetic brain, policing his thoughts.

Onslaught brought the raw code up on his HUD. Elegantly written and beautifully effective, it was a never-ending cycle of Decepticon supremacy with Megatron at the centre, the hub and fulcrum. It was uplifting, energising, full of hope for a new future, and tainted just a little with the bitter tang of subservience.

It was irrevocable. Although he could read the code, there was nothing he could do to change or erase it. And it was essential that he kept it, if they were going to remain with the Decepticons. If they wanted any chance of regaining even a shadow of their former influence.

Kaon had fallen, a crumpled shell. The clubs and bars were empty, the streets and tunnels echoing with the footfalls of Shockwave's few active Guardians. He'd seen it on the monitor, thick with metallic dust, smothered in memory. The stillness was repellent, the sense of isolation unbearable.

But it wouldn't last forever. They just needed to bide their time.

"Onslaught, report to the bridge." Megatron's voice, loud and clear over the PA system. Then Starscream, in the background: "You are _not_ pinning this on _me!_"

"Silence!"

"On my way," Onslaught replied. His vocaliser added "sir" without his permission, just another little intrusion courtesy of the loyalty programming.

Wondering if he'd ever get used to it, Onslaught heaved himself out of the chair, and made his way to the bridge.

* * *

.

* * *

"Slaggit, Thrusters!" Brawl yelled. "You're worse than the freakin' copter!"

"Simply cease struggling, and remain calm." It was a simple instruction, why couldn't Brawl just obey? Brawl gave Blast Off a look of moronic malevolence.

"Calm? CALM? You've fraggin' welded me to the floor!"

Blast Off sighed. So, this is what he got for trying to help his team mates. Onslaught ignored him, Swindle told him to get fragged, Vortex ran off, and Brawl wouldn't listen. Wonderful.

"I haven't welded you to the floor. It's a complex polymer that will come away perfectly easily with the application of a solvent." Blast Off paused. Brawl was giving him that look again, only this time with an added layer of confusion. "It's just glue, Brawl."

"You've glued me to the fraggin' floor!" Brawl yelled. "I'm gonna rip off your wings and shove 'em up your tailpipe!"

"I don't have a tailpipe," Blast Off said.

"I don't slaggin' care!"

"Just relax," Blast Off said. "You've got eight hundred astroseconds to go, that's all. Seven hundred and ninety eight now... seven hundred and ninety five."

"Not..." Brawl said, his denta gritted so hard they squeaked. "... _helping_."

"I could just leave you here," Blast Off said. "Vortex is certain to come back sometime. We are, after all, in his room. And he didn't leave here in the pleasantest of moods."

"No you fraggin' don't," Brawl growled. "How come you wanna try and help anyway? You used to be all numbers and stock control and quanti… quan… amounts and stuff, and bangin' the copter and not talking to us. Why you wanna talk to us all of a sudden? Eh?"

I don't, Blast Off thought. "This is for your own good," he said.

"Is it frag!" Brawl spat.

Why did Brawl have to be so difficult? No wonder Vortex had given up. But Vortex had approached the problem from the wrong angle.

Helping, Blast Off thought, is difficult; but we're meant to be a team, so that is what I am doing. He nodded to himself and muted his audial input against Brawl's inarticulate tirade.

"Seven hundred and forty seven," Blast Off said. "You'll thank me when this is over."

* * *

.

* * *

Megatron was waiting on the bridge, arms crossed and fusion cannon humming gently. Starscream paced behind him, fists clenching and unclenching, wingtips flicking with every step.

"Explain," Megatron said.

Onslaught rebooted his optics, and fought the loyalty programming to find the best thing to say.

Vortex slouched against the wall, cuffed and shackled and obviously enjoying himself. Optics dimmed, his tail rotors quivered against his arm. His grey paint ran with pink and black, the liquids forming small puddles around his feet. None of it was his.

Over by the door, Ramjet dangled between Thrust and Dirge, leaking coolant and Sigma knew what else. One wing was missing, the other crumpled. Exposed wiring sparked at his shoulder and knee; it was a miracle he was conscious. The jet glared at Vortex, his intakes wheezing and denta gritted.

Anyone with half a processor could see what had happened. The question was, what did Megatron want to hear? Onslaught assessed the options, but Vortex had already opened his mouth.

"He's weak," Vortex said, pursing his lips at Ramjet. "I suggest we scrap him."

Ramjet lurched, snarling, and Thrust stumbled to keep him upright.

Vortex grinned. "He's supposed to be the most powerful jet this side of, what? Professor Flounce over there? He is not worthy."

Onslaught's engine stalled, his laser core burning cold for one terrible, long moment. Behind him, a pair of null rays began to whine.

Megatron sniffed, a trace of humour in his narrowed optics. "Onslaught, I expect you to exercise control over your team. Reprimand him. You!" Megatron pointed at Dirge. "Take _him_ away."

Vortex licked a streak of oil from his lips. Onslaught grabbed him roughly by the rotor hub and steered him towards the door. The sooner they were out of there, the better. Especially before Starscream had a chance to explode over the 'Professor Flounce' comment. Ramjet hissed, an incoherent stream of almost-words as Thrust and Dirge carted him off in the direction of med bay.

"You're an idiot," Onslaught said, as soon as they were out of earshot. He stepped carefully; the floor was slippery with Ramjet's vital fluids.

"Come on," Vortex said. "Megsy thought it was funny. So, about this discipline…"

"Reprimand," Onslaught said.

"Whatever. Your place or mine? Yours for privacy, mine if you want an audience." The copter thrummed, optics bright.

"Neither," Onslaught said. "I'm taking you to the brig."

* * *

.

* * *

Oh no, this could _not_ be happening. Swindle dived under the console, frantically unplugging leads. The door chime sounded again. Why the slag did they call it a chime, anyway? It was more like a buzz, like someone had cloned Bombshell's speech impediment (thank frag they hadn't cloned Shrapnel's) and decided it was an appropriate noise to let people know they had a visitor.

Or visitors, in this case. Probably two, maybe more. Frag frag frag, this was officially _not_ good.

Swindle activated his internal comms. /Brawl!/ he yelled. /Brawl, you lazy slagger, I need you, get your aft over here!/

/Hey, Swin./ The response was calm, mellow.

/What the frag? Are you overcharged? Brawl, they're after me, you gotta help me!/

/Nah,/ Brawl said. /It's all good./

The door buzzed again, grating through Swindle's processor. "I'm on my way!" he yelled aloud. Wincing, he switched back to the hidden frequency. /What do you mean, good? This is emphatically _not good_. Soundwave is going to have me killed. I'm serious, Brawl! Get over here!/

/It's like Thrusters said, you just gotta be calm,/ came the reply. Swindle checked the frequency; it was certainly Brawl. Funny, 'cause it didn't' sound like it. /You just have to wait and it'll all, like, sort itself out./

"Frag!" Swindle fumbled with a connector, and the chip containing his account details dropped into a tiny gap between the floor panels. If only it had been grey, like the rest of the metal in this horrid, dull room. But no, it was bright yellow with a red stripe, livery of the Nebulon Central Bank. He tried, unsuccessfully, to prise it out.

"Hey, Swindle, we know you's in there." Rumble's voice, it had to be. No-one implied a threat quite like Rumble.

"I said I'm on my way!" Swindle yelled. If only he could narrow his fingers into claws, like the copter… He added another frequency to his sub-voc comms. /Vortex! Vortex, are you there?/

/Here./ The response was steely, cold. Could mean anything with Vortex. Swindle cast around, frantic, for something small enough to shove down the gap. There was nothing.

/Vortex, you know I'm your team mate, right?/

/Swindle!/ Vortex replied, a gleeful tone entering his voice. /You know I wouldn't frag you if you were reformatted as a seeker, right?/

/I need you, please! Soundwave's gonna have me killed!/

/Hahahahaha! Guess what? I'm in the brig. Enjoy dying./ The link cut out.

"Frag you!" Swindle screamed. Too late, his audial receptors rang with the sound of his own voice.

"You got one more chance," Rumble said. "After which, I got the over-rides to your door code."

/Brawl, you gotta come,/ Swindle pleaded. /Do you wanna be the only leg?/ But Brawl had also cut the connection – either that or Vortex had used his freaky access to the gestalt bond to cut it for him. The door pinged, the lock flashing from red to green.

Swindle stood and grabbed a datapad. Too late he realised it was upside down. He put his foot over the gap between the floor plates.

"Hey, Rumble... Frenzy!" he gave them his widest smile. "What can I do you guys for?"

* * *

.

* * *

"Hey, Ons, I've got an itch." Vortex leant against the cell wall and rolled his shoulders.

"I bet you have," Onslaught said. "This is supposed to be a punishment."

"C'mon, it's just a little itch. _Please_?" Vortex gestured to the cuffs. "I can't reach."

Onslaught activated the energon bars. "Yeah, that's where it starts," he said. "You're not as attractive as you think you are."

"Sure I am. It's the rotors." He fanned them a little, for emphasis. "Ha! Guess who's comming me? Fragging Swindle." There was a short pause, then Vortex began to laugh.

Onslaught considered just walking away. It wasn't as though Vortex could stop him. He sighed. "What's he done this time?"

"He's just paranoid," Vortex said. He fell back onto the berth, holding the cuffs over his head. "You reckon I could chew through these?"

Lying glitch, there was something going on. "No. Where is he?"

There was a moment of silence. Onslaught shifted, uncomfortable, as Vortex accessed the gestalt programming.

"In transit," Vortex grinned. "Heading north along corridor two, sector five."

Onslaught forced his fists to uncurl. "Why Swindle?" he said. "Of all the mechs for Starscream to lumber us with. Why him?"

"Weapons knowledge? Outdated intergalactic trade links?" Vortex yawned. "Mistaken identity? OK, this is dull. Tell Screamer I said he's a useless pile of slag."

"No," Onslaught said. He didn't want to think about where that would lead. "Remember the part where this is a punishment? I want you to keep that in mind."

"So punish me," Vortex said. "Hey, where are you going?"

"To deal with Swindle."

* * *

.

* * *

Blast Off lay on his berth in the dark, listening to the gentle hum of the Nemesis's systems, and tried to ignore the insistent tug of the gestalt bond. It was Vortex – who else could it be? – and he wanted something.

Blast Off had closed his end, isolating himself from the link as soon as he'd realised what it was. Everyone had, except the copter. Stupid glitch seemed to think that kind of intimacy was a good thing.

Well Vortex could get slagged. Why should he think himself worthy of Blast Off's attention? He'd been nothing but a nuisance since the moment Starscream had brought them back online.

Thank Cybertron Blast Off didn't have to worry about the loyalty programming. It had integrated well, slotting alongside his pre-established routines without overwriting so much as a single line of code. He quite liked it, not that he was about to tell the others. It showed him what he was, and what was expected of him. It was a safety net of sorts. Megatron no longer needed to concern himself with whether or not they were going to send the Earth spinning into the Sun, hence Megatron no longer needed to keep such a close eye on them. Which was good; the Nemesis was hardly a pleasant place to live. Rumour had it the Constructicons were designing them a base of their own. He hoped the rumour was true.

It was a wonderful thought. Somewhere far away from the mess and chaos of the Decepticon army. A quiet place out in the desert, where there would be more than a storage locker between his recharge chamber and the one they'd assigned to Vortex. With any luck, there'd be three whole buildings between them. He wondered, briefly, if he might be able to convince Onslaught to convince Megatron to build his part on the Moon.

The gestalt bond pulsed, an insistent tugging growing stronger with each passing astrosecond. Awkward glitch, why couldn't he just use his communications hardware?

Exasperated, Blast Off opened a channel. /What is it?/ he snapped.

/I've, uh, got a problem./ Vortex sounded jittery.

/No,/ Blast Off said. The gestalt programming gave an uncomfortable twinge. Hadn't he just spent the better part of his recharge cycle trying to help his team? And wasn't Vortex a part of that team? Regardless of how they'd ended up in this situation and what a considerable pain in the aft he was.

/That was unnecessarily pre-emptive,/ Vortex commented, his voice conveying just the right mix of affront and disappointment. Manipulative to the core.

Blast Off sighed. /What do you want?/

/I'm in the brig,/ Vortex said. /I was, uh, interrupted with someone. Got a bit of excess energy needs dealing with./

Blast Off didn't have to ask what he was interrupted doing. Vicious and unprincipled, that was Vortex all over.

/And Onslaught isn't available?/ Blast Off said. /Figures./ Too late, he realised how bitter he sounded.

/Hey,/ Vortex objected. /It's not my fault you're never around to 'face. You know you don't have to ask, right?/

Blast Off could think of no appropriate response, so he simply said nothing. At least Vortex didn't seem to be suffering from the programming any more. Although Blast Off had no idea why he should care.

/Come down to the brig,/ Vortex urged. /It'll be great, I promise./

/No it won't,/ Blast Off stated. /You'll be all touchy feely, you can't help yourself./ He shuddered. The last thing he needed was fingers in unexpected places. Although the thought of interfacing sent a very small and wholly pleasurable tremor along his back struts. It had been so long... But no, he couldn't do that, not with Vortex in his current state.

/But I'm incarcerated!/ Vortex protested. /I'm behind bars _and_ in cuffs, I couldn't touch you if I tried. I know you helped Brawl. Won't you do this one little thing for me? _Please?_/

* * *

.

* * *

Swindle had never in his long life been so pleased to see Brawl.

"Been lookin' for yer," Brawl said. "What's goin' on?" He gave the whole scene the once over, a confused flicker interrupting the orange glow of his visor.

Rumble twirled the shock stick like a baton, unperturbed. "We was just doin' your partner here a favour, weren't we, Frenzy?"

"Yeah," Frenzy leered. "We're helpful like that."

"Oh," said Brawl. "Right." He didn't sound as weird as he had over the comm link, but there was still something uncharacteristically subdued about him. Swindle didn't like it one bit. "Vortex commed me to, like, come get him or something."

Vortex did? Perplexed, Swindle geared up to transmit on a secure frequency, but Frenzy leaned a little closer, his gun butting against Swindle's hip. Swindle paused; that was a warning. Of course, they'd know if he tried to speak to Brawl, no matter how he did it. Pit-spawned rustbucket cassettes.

Brawl gave Swindle that special look, the one which meant, 'help me out here. I'm in over my head, and I have no idea what's going on. I gotta slag these guys or what?' But Swindle had no way of responding. If he said things were fine, Brawl would probably take him at face value and be off on his merry way (and what the pit was he on, anyway?). And if he said the opposite, Rumble and Frenzy would haul him up in front of Soundwave - or worse, Megatron - with all the proof they needed that he'd tried to buy something to erase the loyalty programming, and tried to evade being punished for it.

After which, they'd almost certainly find out who he was trying to buy it from. Very shortly after which, he'd be dead.

Frag, why'd the Quintessons have to be the only ones selling that level of software purge in the first place? At least they were happy to trade through Nebulos; that could give him a level of plausible deniability. Frenzy looked up at him, an unpleasant gleam in his optics; Swindle fought to keep his energon in his tanks. Yeah, right, like Megatron would believe that.

"Hey," Brawl said, his gaze finally resting on the shock stick. Swindle waited; please, he thought, make the connection. Come on... "You're not, like, hurting him, are you?"

Sigma, Brawl was thick. Thick_er_, Swindle corrected himself. Somewhat beyond his usual level of ignorance. Whatever he'd taken had done a number on his processors.

"Frag off, moron," Rumble said. "This is a security issue."

"Hey!" Brawl yelled. "Who you callin' a moron, shortaft?"

At last, Swindle thought. Brawl took a swing at Rumble just as Rumble and Frenzy transformed their arms and launched themselves at Brawl. But his triumph turned to slag as a large, dark, and horribly familiar shape entered the corridor.

"What the frag is going on?" Onslaught roared. "I leave you alone for half a cycle. Just _half a cycle_ and look at you!"

Swindle's vocaliser hitched, an involuntary squeak as Onslaught lifted him by the throat. "You," he growled, and Swindle's circuits rattled as Onslaught slammed him against the wall. "Are in trouble. And as for you." Onslaught's other hand swept around, an open-fisted blow that spun Brawl into the opposite side of the corridor. "What have I told you about assaulting superior officers?"

Brawl stood unsteadily, his engine stuttering. "Them?" he said. "They're not-"

"They are," Onslaught growled.

"Slaggin' right," Rumble said. "Now, you're gonna hand back that slimy, no-good-"

Onslaught gave Rumble the briefest of glances. "You might outrank them," he said. "But you don't outrank me. I'm taking Swindle. Whatever he's done, his punishment comes under _my_ jurisdiction, not yours."

Rumble glared and picked up the shock stick; he exchanged a glance with Frenzy. _Back down_, Swindle thought, _please back down. Onslaught, get us the frag out of here!_

"Ack!" Swindle's neck plating began to stretch. He clasped Onslaught's wrist, more to support his own weight than to encourage Onslaught to let go; there was no point in attempting the impossible.

Hefting Swindle as though he weighed nothing, Onslaught shoved Brawl a little way down the corridor.

"Hey, where're you goin'!" Rumble yelled.

Onslaught didn't bother turning back. "You don't appear to have been listening," he said. "This is an internal matter. Reprimanding my team is _my_ business. I suggest you return to Soundwave and make your report."

* * *

.

* * *

"It hurts it hurts it hurts!" Swindle dangled from Onslaught's fist, purple optics flickering pathetically, limbs thrashing at thin air.

"Good," Onslaught said. When he judged they were far enough from the cassettes, he opened a private comm channel. /So,/ he said. /I am about to get an explanation. Brawl, you first./

/Tex called me,/ Brawl replied. /He said I should go find Swindle./

/Which naturally led to a fist fight?/

Brawl shrugged. He didn't seem to have an answer, but that was hardly unusual.

/All right,/ Onslaught said. /Swindle, it's your turn./

Swindle went limp, cables creaking. Onslaught set him down on the floor, but kept his hand firmly around the smaller mech's throat.

/Keep moving,/ he ordered. Swindle's feet slid around as he struggled to keep his balance while walking backwards. /I believe I made myself clear,/ Onslaught said. /You will explain yourself./

/I… I was…/ Swindle stuttered, his chin pressed against Onslaught's thumb. /I was just trying to help./ He looked up, optics glimmering with contrite sincerity. /I did it for all of us!/

/Really?/ Onslaught prompted. /Did what?/

/Got a good deal too. Could get rid of all this loyalty slag./ His vocaliser keened as Onslaught increased his grip.

/_What_ did you buy?/ he snarled.

/Software purge,/ Swindle blurted over the comm link. /The very best, enough for all of us, I swear! I was just trying to-/

/No,/ Onslaught replied. /You weren't. I know you, Swindle. You were trying to do what's best by you, and anyone else can just get fragged./

/Talking of fragging,/ Brawl interrupted, still using the private link. He had come to a halt by the outer brig door, one hand on the wall, motionless. Quietly, Onslaught joined him, Swindle clutching at his fingers.

He froze, mouth agape under his mask. Blast Off and Vortex knelt either side of the energon bars; their interface cables stretched taut between them, buzzing with current and vibrating hard, only a foot or so from the harsh glow of the energy field. Blast Off's head was back, his optics dimmed and posture tense. Inside the cell, Vortex's cuffed hands twitched, fingers grasping for purchase on the grey of his thigh.

Brawl laughed, and Blast Off's optics flared. He jerked at the sound, slamming the cables against the glowing bars. "ARGGHHH! Slag oh slag oh slag that hurts!"

"Oh Sigma, yes!" Vortex moaned, as the stench of melting copper filled the air. He clutched at Blast Off's connector, holding it still within his port until the convulsions of overload had diminished to a tremor. Blast Off vented heavily, cupping the body of his cable away from the glowing, singing bars.

"You need to let go!" Blast Off panted. "Seriously, Vortex!"

"Oh slag, that was good…" Vortex freed the connector and passed it carefully through the gap. He caught the business end of his own cable, then lay back on the floor with a clang.

Blast Off shuddered, shoulders hunched, and fumbled to pack away his damaged hardware.

Onslaught clipped Brawl around the helm with the flat of his hand, and gestured to the next cell over.

"Blast Off," he said. "When a mech is in the brig, it generally means he's being punished for something. Do you think that Vortex is in any way an exception?"

"I… uh," Blast Off stuttered, his vocaliser crackling. "I was simply attempting to, um. Our morale is in severe need... and the, ah, cohesiveness of our team as a gestalt unit…" he trailed off.

"Uh-huh, really," Onslaught said. "Fragging Vortex in the brig helps unify us as a gestalt. I'll remember that one."

"Is that a promise?" Vortex muttered. He twisted to peer at Onslaught, his lip curling as he caught sight of Swindle. "You're not thinking of putting _him_ in here with me, are you?"

"Shut up," Onslaught said. "We know you sent Brawl after Swindle, so stop pretending you hate him so much." He fixed his gaze on Blast Off's visor. "It's bad for team morale."

Blast Off had the grace to look ashamed, and made no protest when Onslaught gestured him to the cell beside Brawl's.

"And as for you." Onslaught turned to Swindle. "What part of 'Soundwave is always watching us' do you not understand?"

"Soundwave was on recharge!" Swindle protested, fingers scrabbling at Onslaught's hand.

"Soundwave is _never_ on recharge!" Onslaught roared. "Not as far as you're concerned. If he's not watching, his cassettes will be. You're a pathetic waste of space, Swindle. You're a selfish, avaricious, unprincipled frag-up of an ex-weapons dealer who's trying to ruin this for all of us. And believe me," – he gave Swindle another quick shake for emphasis – "if you frag us over, I will hound you unto the very ends of the universe, and _I will make you suffer_. Do you understand me?"

Swindle tried to nod, his chin clanking against Onslaught's armour. "I get it!" he rasped. "I'm with you."

"No virus purge," Onslaught said. "No tampering with Megatron's code, or with Starscream's. Because without those, we're nothing here. Without that programming, we're just another group of insubordinate glitches one thoughtless action from oblivion."

"All right, all right," Swindle said. "I get it, I really do!"

Onslaught sniffed. "You'd better. Because I just saved your life, and I don't want that to be for nothing." It was satisfying to hurl Swindle into the next empty cell, to watch him land crumpled and small in the corner, a sad little tangle of limbs.

"You think about that," Onslaught said. "All of you." He glared at them, four mechs in a row behind the hissing pink bars. "Learn some self control. No talking, no private comms. You're in here until I decide to let you out. And believe me, that will _not_ be soon."

He retreated to the guard station and slumped in the chair. Frag, he needed to recharge. But Soundwave would be watching. Sooner of later, he'd comb through the footage, searching for any breach of protocol, any hint of undue leniency.

If Onslaught wanted his team to survive, justice must be seen to be served.

He wished he could thrash them all and be done with it. But the Detention Centre had left its mark on every one of them; incarceration was likely to have more of a lasting impact.

He glanced at the monitors. The four were thankfully silent, obedient at last, lost in their own thoughts. Swindle rubbed his neck, wincing, his fingers streaked with oil. Brawl paced, bored already. Blast Off hunched over his interface hardware, his head in his hands. Only Vortex seemed at all content, sprawled on his back on the floor, shackled hands over his open panel. But the glow of overload wouldn't last long; sooner or later, the isolation would kick in, the energy depletion, the need for company.

What had Starscream been thinking? A gestalt - out of this mess... Onslaught sighed, and entered his details into the console. He pulled up his personal files, opened a new window.

His team was a problem. _His_ problem. And he would solve it.


	2. Attention 1

**Title:** Attention

**Content advice:** a bit of violence, Cybertronian cursing, talk of smut, crack

**Summary:** Drag Strip wants to win at things you're not supposed to win at, like seducing a Combaticon (uh, yeah, this was written under the influence of PowerThirst commercials).

**Notes:** I'm posting this here because it continues almost directly after 'Taking one for the Team'. This little plot arc has 7 chapters in total.

* * *

.

* * *

I ain't gonna lie to you about your chances," Wildrider said, kicking his heels against the side of the berth. "But… you got my sympathies."

Drag strip glared. Misquoting movies again, classy. There was no way Wildrider knew what 'sympathies' meant. "And what would you know about it? Slowpoke."

"Frag you…" Wildrider paused, presumably while his processor went through a list of mildly witty, acerbic taunts. "You yellow-aftded spawn of a trash compacter!"

So predictable.

"Touché," Dead End commented, not bothering to look up from his datapad.

"Not slaggin' touché," Drag Strip snarled. "Afted isn't a word, and he knows squat."

"It is a word," Dead End replied.

"Is not." Drag Strip muttered. Dead End always had to take someone else's side, never the side that had him on it and was therefore right.

"Is so," Wildrider said. "And anyway, you got someplace to be now, right? I mean, if you wanna get your shiny yellow backside handed to you."

"You…" Drag Strip clenched his denta. He was above all this. He was cool, he was calm. Wildrider wasn't getting to him; he was better than that. Yeah, he was so much better than that. A smile caught at his faceplates. He was the best.

And he was going to prove it.

As he neared the door, Dead End looked up, briefly, from his reading. "Drag Strip?"

He paused. "Yeah?"

"Remember to update your firewalls before you go."

* * *

.

* * *

How he made it into the corridor without clocking the both of them, Drag Strip wasn't exactly sure. But he did. And it was a good feeling. They were, after all, his team mates. They were cool, usually, and Wildrider could be a lot of fun. Dead End not so much, but he was fast – not as fast as Drag Strip, though, obviously – and he knew stuff.

Well, some stuff. 'Afted' _so_ wasn't a word.

Drag Strip stopped by one of the Nemesis's viewing windows. The brightness of the interior lights coupled with the darkness outside made it a decent mirror. He gave himself an appreciative grin. Handsome _and_ fast, good combination. And no smuts, either.

Looking fine, slag yeah.

Of course, he had no idea whether the new mechs liked that kind of thing. But pah, he was the hottest thing on six wheels, who wouldn't want a piece of him?

He caught the echo of approaching footsteps, and leant against the wall, nonchalant and incredibly alluring. Yep, utterly irresistible. Especially to a mature, excitingly dangerous and highly experienced mech (if you believed the rumours, and Drag Strip certainly did) who'd spent the past few million years in prison.

But, as the mech turned the corner, Drag Strip slumped.

"Breakdown? Frag."

"Don't sound so pleased to see me," Breakdown said. "You're not seriously going through with this?"

"Sure am," Drag Strip said. "Or I would be, if you'd just, y'know, slag off. They got back at 0200 hours, he's gotta come past here to get to his recharge."

"Uh…" Breakdown glanced around, his engine giving a nervous little stutter. "And you want to go with him? He's creepy."

"So?" Drag Strip preened. Creepy, he could handle. Creepy came hand-in-hand with obsessive, which was just another word for attentive. "Don't give me that look, Breaky."

"Don't call me Breaky," Breakdown mumbled, but his words weren't important so Drag Strip spoke right over him.

"He's just got out of prison, got a new body and all that. He'll be extra grateful for the attention, especially coming from me." A new set of footsteps rang out, two sets by the sound of things. "Slag, they're coming, hide!"

Breakdown didn't need to be told twice. He was a good partner, all in all, huddling under a bench by the window, making himself scarce to give Drag Strip a better chance. Well, it wasn't like anyone was going to look twice at him with Mr scaredy-capacitor standing alongside, trembling when anyone so much as looked at him. They'd be too busy laughing.

But by himself, yeah, Drag Strip was un-missable.

Just like those rotors. He'd never seen a rotary mech before Vortex showed up. But he'd soon realised that there was something about parts that spun around that made his engine rev like crazy. And that was without the rumours.

Yeah, there was nothing like a truly dangerous mech to get Drag Strip's circuits buzzing.

And how they buzzed.

Drag Strip waited until Vortex had rounded the corner, giving him an astrosecond or two to fully appreciate the splendid and highly attractive vista laid out before him, before stepping neatly into his path.

"Blast Off, for frag sake!" Vortex dodged Drag Strip without looking and carried on. "How many times do I have to say I didn't mean it!"

So, that explained who the other mech was. Drag Strip didn't really care; he was large and bulky and not at all interesting. Even the angry growl of his engines just seemed dull.

Drag Strip tried again, nipping in front of Vortex, and adopting his most attractive pose.

"Hey," he said.

"Frag off." Vortex tried to dodge again, but Drag Strip employed his superior speed to good effect. Now, if only the shuttle would keep on walking and… yes! Blast Off rounded the corner, vanishing from sight.

"Gah!" Vortex yelled. "Fraggit, Thrusters, come back here you obstinate scrapheap!"

But Blast Off had gone, and Vortex – finally! – gave Drag Strip the attention he deserved. He looked the Stunticon over, his visor gleaming like freshly-spilled squishy innards.

"What the slag is wrong with you? Get out of my way."

OK, _not_ the attention Drag Strip deserved. But it was attention, and if he let a temporary setback get to him, he wouldn't be the best.

He flashed a grin; he'd heard the copter liked a challenge. "No."

There was no warning. One moment, Drag Strip was standing in his sexy pose, the next he was up against the wall with Vortex's hand around his throat, his pedes a good distance from the floor.

"Ugh!" He tried to speak, but Vortex was crushing his vocaliser.

"Now," Vortex growled. "Keep the slag out of my way, understand?"

He didn't wait for Drag Strip to acknowledge him, but suddenly his aft was on the floor and Vortex had vanished, his footfalls heavy in the thankfully empty corridor.

Empty apart from Breakdown, whose optics glowed from the gloom under the bench.

Breakdown waited until Vortex was out of earshot before whispering, "Wildrider will say he told you so."

"Shut up," Drag Strip snapped, his voice crackly and unclear. "This isn't over. I'm gonna win this, you'll see."

Breakdown muttered something that sounded like, "I don't think it's a competition", but Drag Strip knew otherwise.


	3. Attention 2

Breakdown emerged from under the bench. He really wasn't keen on Vortex; there was just something about the mech that made his paintwork crawl. And there was Drag Strip darting off after him like the unintentionally suicidal chipless moron he was.

"Hey!" Breakdown yelled, although admittedly not very loudly. "Drag Strip!"

"No time!" Drag Strip called back.

Breakdown sighed. Evidently not. After a moment's hesitation, he commed Dead End for backup, then slunk off along the corridor after his team mate.

* * *

.

* * *

"Thrusters! Let me the frag in!"

OK, so Vortex hadn't vanished into his recharge yet. That was good. Drag Strip paused and poked his head around the corner. The copter was leaning with his palms and helm against a door. Drag Strip could just about make out Blast Off's voice from inside.

"Slag. Off."

"Seriously, Blast Off, open the door." Vortex gave the metal a solid kick. "We need to talk."

"No." Again, the same muffled voice, the same dry, emotionless tone. "We don't."

"We slaggin' well do!" Vortex snarled. "Open the slaggin' door or you're not gonna have a door left to open!"

Drag Strip huffed. What did Blast Off have that he didn't? Nothing, that's what. Sure, he could fly in space. _Bor_ing. And leg-mounted cannons? Pah! Drag Strip had a cannon, and it was a far sleeker design too. _And _he had shoulder tyres. Nice, perfectly round and tastily bouncy shoulder tyres. Wildrider liked his shoulder tyres, and Vortex was kinda like Wildrider in the crazy stakes, so it stood to reason that Vortex ought to like them too.

But had he noticed? Slag, he didn't even notice when Drag Strip stepped confidently around the corner, and leant up against the wall in full view. He cocked his hip, crossed his arms, and lifted one knee, his foot flat against the panelling. Damn, he was hot. But no, a reaction was not forthcoming.

"Frag you, Blast Off! I'm coming in whether you like it or not!"

Drag Strip glowered; stupid shuttle. It grated that captain monotone was the focus of the copter's attentions, when it should so obviously have been him.

The Stunticon comm. channel opened just as Vortex started punching the door.

/Dead End to Drag Strip, you're going to get yourself killed./

/No I'm not./ Drag Strip adjusted his pose to display his spoiler to its best possible advantage. He didn't need a mirror to tell how good he looked, he'd practiced in front of one often enough.

"Come on, Thrusters, please?" Vortex began to pace, three quick steps either way. "Let me in! I just wanna talk to you. Seriously." There was no response. "For frag sake, open up! This is your last warning, Blast Off, let me the slag in!"

/Yes,/ Dead End said. /You are. We're over here./ He sent a quick triangulation pulse; they were in the same place Drag Strip had been before he decided to make himself more conspicuous. /And we can hear him. That is inot/i a healthy team dynamic./

Drag Strip shrugged. Those doors were solid, Vortex wasn't about to get through. Sooner or later, he'd get bored with his stupid, dumb-aft team mate, and notice the incredibly stylish and attractive speed racer down the hall.

"I fraggin' mean it!" Vortex snarled. He gave the door one more heavy thump, and Drag Strip was horrified to see that the metal actually bent. Then he started kicking.

Drag Strip stared. OK, the Combaticon was strong; doors really shouldn't bow like that. Not on the Nemesis anyway. He winced as the glass in Vortex's foot shattered, but Vortex didn't seem to notice.

/That doesn't sound good,/ Dead End commented over the comm-link.

Drag Strip pursed his lips and refused to respond. How the frag long was this going to take anyway? Sure, he could win at it, but as far as competitive sports went, the waiting game was the one he enjoyed the least.

Then the door opened. Drag Strip gaped. Stupid defective shuttle, why in the name of Sigma did he have to give in! What was wrong with him?

The muzzle of a plasma rifle emerged from the gloom. It stopped about a meter from Vortex's chest plates. The copter's visor gleamed.

"All right," Blast Off said. "Talk."

Drag Strip's engine revved, and not in the good way. This wasn't how it was meant to go.

"Not out here," Vortex said. He flicked his thumb at Drag Strip. "We've got an audience."

Drag Strip gaped. He _had_ noticed! The slagger had seen him and… and _ignored_ him! How in all the universe was that even possible? No one ignored Drag Strip!

The gun juddered. "Get in," Blast Off rumbled. "But talking is all you're doing. Try anything else, and I mean _anything_, and there won't be enough left of you for Hook to piece back together. Understand?"

"Sure, sure," Vortex said. He pushed past the gun and vanished from sight. "For frag sake, it was only an interface cable."

The door closed and Drag Strip glared. Only an interface cable? So, it was like that then, was it?

"Well." Dead End rounded the corner, followed closely by Breakdown. "You're not dead."

"Don't sound so surprised," Drag Strip growled.

"You've seen what he's like," Breakdown said. "Pick someone else, yeah?"

Drag Strip shook his head. That sounded far too much like giving in, which was the same thing as losing. "No," he said. The game had changed, but the goal was still the same. Sure, he had competition now, but there was no question about it, he was going to win.


	4. Attention 3

"What the slag are you looking at?" Vortex snapped.

Drag Strip shrugged. "You." He lounged next to the spare parts rack, by far and away the hottest thing in medbay. The second hottest thing was stretched out on the berth, a gaping hole in his chassis, his rotors trapped beneath him. Sad that they weren't spinning, but the ends quivered a little, as though begging to be touched. Somehow, Drag Strip made himself wait.

Beneath the smoke-streaked translucent glass of his visor, Vortex's optics were just about visible. They narrowed. "Slag off."

"No," Drag Strip said. Sure, last time he'd told Vortex 'no', it hadn't gone well for him. But this time? Hydraulic fluid leaked in a steady stream from the Combaticon's waist; he wasn't going anywhere fast.

The copter continued to glare. "You capable of words with more that one syllable?"

Drag Strip huffed. "Sure."

Vortex laughed and looked away.

No no no, that wasn't good. The captive audience was meant to be looking over here, at the shiny, polished paintwork and sleek, smooth lines. At least until Hook got back, anyway.

"I mean, I can. Uh…" Slag, words of more than one syllable, he knew words like that! Although the only one he could think of right now was 'syllable'. He could make conversation, he was highly socially adept; what the frag was wrong with him?

"What's the matter," Vortex said, still not looking at him. "Ravage got your glossa?"

Must be the rotors. Yeah. Frag, they were tasty. Drag Strip edged a little closer to the berth. No, not edged, he sauntered, confident and smooth, and allowed the back of his hand to brush against the tip of one of the rotor blades.

"That wound," he said. "Looks painful." Thank frag, a two-syllable word. "Maybe I can do something to help?"

"I doubt it." Vortex gestured at the door. "Now, slag off."

What the frag? Drag Strip had read up on rotaries – well, he'd got Dead End to read up on rotaries for him, but it was all the same when you got down to it. That slip of metal was meant to be more sensitive than his spoiler. And yet…

Vortex must have felt it. He was probably just being contrary. Either that or oblivious. Whichever, this wasn't a battle Drag Strip was prepared to lose; he tried it again.

The blade juddered, and there was the slightest shift in the pitch of Vortex's engine. Drag Strip smirked.

"Could be a while before Hook gets back," he said, sliding his palm along the rotor, edging closer to Vortex's shoulder. "I could help take your mind off the pain…"

Vortex glanced at him. "Can you see my laser core from there?"

"Huh?" Drag Strip paused.

Vortex sighed. "OK, zippy, basic listening comprehension, not your strong point, is it? Can you see my laser core from where you're standing? And if you're gonna grope me, do it properly. Frag, what's wrong with the mechs around here? Bunch of new-model freaks."

Drag Strip faltered. For about half an astrosecond, anyway, before the realisation hit him: the copter had given him a nickname. Round one to him, ha! He couldn't consider it round two; what had happened earlier, that was just the speed trials.

And as for groping… He wrapped his fingers around the blade's leading edge and smoothed his hand over the metal. It thrummed in his grip, slick with a trace of spilled energon.

"That good?" Drag Strip asked.

"Eh, it's OK," Vortex said. "But seriously, can you see my laser core?"

"Uh…" This wasn't how it was meant to go. Vortex was meant to say "Mmmm, that's great," and then they'd move to phase two of Vortex wanting him.

"Well, can you?" Vortex prompted. Drag Strip was about to reply when the copter's attention yet again slid away. He glanced over at the door an astrosecond before Brawl came blundering through it.

"Vortex! Hey, VORTEX!" Brawl thunked into the berth, the recoil slamming up Drag Strip's arm. Vortex grinned.

Brawl prodded his side. "Hahahahahahahaha! So it's true, Blasty really did shoot you! Frag, you had it coming."

"Shut up," Vortex said. "Hey, can you see my laser core from there?"

"Unf!" Drag Strip crashed into the spare parts rack as Brawl shoved him roughly out of the way. Drag Strip glowered; moron.

"Ha! Yeah!" Brawl lent down, peering into the hole in Vortex's armour. "It's all grey and stuff. And, like, glowy at the end. Ahahahahaha! He almost killed you!"

Drag Strip clenched his fists. Half an astrosecond to reach for his pistol, another astrosecond to put Brawl out of the picture. But Hook chose just that moment to re-appear, and Drag Strip was suddenly quite glad that he wasn't the one with his hands on the copter.

He was already halfway down the corridor when the shouting began. Yeah, this round definitely went to him.


	5. Attention 4

Drag Strip sighed; frag he looked good.

His polish was perfect, his hubcaps gleamed; even Dead End couldn't deny his innate attractiveness.

Not that he wanted to 'face with Dead End right now. That would be a bit too easy, especially given what Dead End had been reading. Apparently, there was just something about Nietzsche that turned his ignition key.

"He won't be able to resist," Drag Strip commented. He flashed his reflection a confident grin. Over on the berth, Dead End nodded, datapad in hand.

"Indeed." He glanced up. "Although I feel beholden to note that this is possibly the worst idea I've heard since Wildrider challenged Brawl to a drinking contest. This is going to end in pain. Terrible, terrible pain. And possibly annihilation."

Drag Strip rolled his optics. "But I look good," he said.

There was the slightest of pauses. "Indeed."

"Damned right I do."

Out in the corridor, Drag Strip took the fast lane. Not that there actually were lanes, but some mechs were just slaggin' slow. Overtaking them was like a public service. Especially if he happened to give them a quick bump while he was at it, jostle them along a little, show them how they were meant to move.

His forcefield hummed, his finish pristine and gleaming.

He caught Vortex emerging from medbay, whole again and clean. It even looked like someone had tried to make his armour shine. Not that they'd had much success, but Drag Strip liked his partners dull, it made his own paintwork show up all the better.

"Hey there," Drag Strip said, just as Onslaught rounded the corner.

"You insubordinate glitch!" Onslaught roared.

Drag Strip snarled. Not _again_. What was it with this guy's team mates? Didn't they want him to get laid?

Onslaught's visor glowed. "When I say 'report to the briefing room at 1400 hours', I _mean_ 'report to the briefing room at 1400 hours', not 'have another afternoon in medbay, and why don't you bribe Scrapper to clean your rotor assembly while you're at it?'"

"It needed doing," Vortex shrugged.

"Stand to attention when I'm talking to you," Onslaught snarled. "We have a mission to complete, and you, whether you like it or not, are integral."

Vortex didn't stand to attention. He just shrugged again and flicked his rotors. "So brief me then."

Drag Strip slumped. What the slag was that? Flirting? Surely Vortex couldn't prefer the company of his own commander to a hot, young racer with a spoiler to die for?

Onslaught snarled, catching Vortex around the throat and slamming him against the wall.

Drag Strip didn't catch what he said next, as his comms pinged and a loud, enthusiastic voice yelled, /Hey, Drag Strip, what's goin' on?/

He sighed. Wildrider; just what he needed.

/Nothing,/ he lied.

Vortex squirmed, but didn't engage his weapons. Onslaught spun him around, seized him by the rotor hub and shoved him roughly in a direction which was, annoyingly, away from Drag Strip. "Now get moving!"

Infuriatingly, all the copter did was laugh.

Wildrider snickered. /You had another false start, Strippy?/

/Shove it up your tailpipe!/ Drag Strip snapped. /And don't call me Strippy!/ He cut the comm. He hated it when Wildrider was right; it _was_ a false start, another one. How the frag was he meant to compete if he couldn't even get close?

He pushed away from the wall, then turned back and kicked it, hard. His forcefield juddered.

There had to be a way.


	6. Attention 5

This, Drag Strip thought, was his chance.

A joint mission with the Combaticons. Energon retrieval, nothing too exciting, but something that got him legitimately closer to Vortex. Close enough to make the most of his gains back in med bay. Close enough to show off the benefits of a good force field and a great paint job. Close enough to make a move without any of the copter's stupid team getting in the way.

He drove out in front, at the head of the convoy, exactly where he belonged.

/Don't you just wanna jump up and grab his landing gear?/ Wildrider asked. His windshield gleamed red in the dying sun. He was a good few seconds behind Drag Strip, but that was only to be expected.

Drag Strip sped up, increasing the distance between them. Vortex hovered a way back, trailing Motormaster and Onslaught. Pair of Sunday drivers. Still, the formation looked good from the optical sensors in his rear view mirror. Whichever way you looked at it, those rotors were hot.

/You could like cling on and go flyin' and stuff,/ Wildrider continued. /It'd be awesome!/

Drag Strip gunned his engine. /Ha, Yeah!/ And while he was up there, he could grab onto a bit more than just his landing gear.

/Hey Drag Strip!/ Breakdown wailed from somewhere near the back. /Are we nearly there yet? Brawl keeps looking at me./

/He isn't looking at you,/ Dead End cut in.

/He is!/ Breakdown said. /It's pointing right at me!/

Dead End sighed. /That's just his cannon. It has to point that way. His optical sensors are located elsewhere./

Drag Strip snickered. /Serves you right for letting them tailgate you! Should have driven up front with us./ Well, he though, _behind_ us, but away from the tank and the jeep. Slag, they were slow.

Wildrider flashed his headlights in agreement. /Yeah, Breaky, stop being such a wuss!/

/Quiet,/ Motormaster growled. /Wildrider, Drag Strip, scout the area. Comm. check every quarter breem. Out./

Finally, a chance to show what he could do! Drag Strip accelerated hard, cutting through the air like a hot knife through a bock of wax polish. The copter had better be watching.

* * *

.

* * *

The sun set, a distant orange glow beneath a pall of cloud. Drag Strip flicked on his headlights; he couldn't have Vortex missing him in the gloom.

He sped around the perimeter, half-listening to the open comms. Breakdown, Dead End and Swindle were busy loading up Motormaster's trailer, while Brawl and Onslaught kept guard. Blast Off was nowhere to be seen, but Dead End didn't miss him.

Vortex hovered overhead, rotating slowly on his axis. He looked bored.

He didn't, however, look that way for long. As Motormaster closed the tailgate of his trailer and issued the command to head out, Wildrider sped down the approach road from the perimeter. Dead End looked on, aghast, as his team mate transformed, using the momentum of his alt mode to propel himself into the air. Dead End had no idea how Wildrider managed to get as high as Vortex's landing gear, but he did. The copter tilted, then spun, then veered off on the craziest flight path Drag Strip had ever seen. Wildrider clung to his wheels, whooping and cheering, his ebullient joy echoing loud and clear along the gestalt bond.

"You dirty fragging aft-headed bastard!" Drag Strip yelled, but his voice was lost in the roar of rotors.

"Hahahahahahahaha!" Vortex dived, twisting and turning, so obviously enjoying himself that Drag Strip wanted to bash Wildrider's head in with one of Hook's wrenches. How _dare_ he? His own slagging team mate!

"Wildrider!" Motormaster boomed.

Never had Drag Strip been so pleased to hear that voice. Especially that particular tone. He revved his engine, his circuits sizzling. Whatever Wildrider had coming to him, the fragger deserved it.

Over by the trailer, Dead End shook his head, Brawl laughed his aft off, and Onslaught glowered.

And still, Wildrider didn't let go.


	7. Attention 6

Drag Strip wasn't fond of counting his losses. It was, however, acceptable to count false starts. He'd had four of them so far. All of them interruptions. The shuttle, the tank, that overbearing, possessive glitch of a commander, and his own dumb-aft team mate.

He paced his room, his force field engaged so that he didn't scuff his finish.

He was going to kill Wildrider. Seriously kill him; knock off his head and use it as a lampshade, tear off his arms and shove them down the garbage chute.

That is, if there was anything left over after Motormaster was done with him.

Drag Strip kept getting twinges through the gestalt bond, shame and pain and something resembling remorse. But he blocked them out. Wildrider deserved it. This was the worst possible betrayal.

And he had no idea where Vortex was. Drag Strip hadn't seen him crash, but he'd heard it. The two of them laughing, giddy and happy and _frag_ it wasn't fair. It should have been him! But he wasn't mad enough to launch himself at a airframe in flight. Not that he couldn't have, and with infinitely more grace and finesse than Wildrider could ever have managed.

But he hadn't. And that moronic glitch of a team mate had got to the copter first.

First place was _his_ place, not Wildrider's. Stupid scrapheap.

A thump on the door, and Drag Strip's train of thought came shuddering to a halt. Breakdown, it had to be. No one else could knock so loud while making it sound so unobtrusive.

"Use the buzzer!" Drag Strip shouted.

/It's, uh, not working./ Breakdown's response came via comms. /Can I come in? I… I need to talk to you?/

"Either you do or you don't." Drag Strip muttered. He punched the code into the door lock, then flumped on the berth. "Fragger."

"Thought you were re… re… restitute," Breakdown stammered. "Not like you to be defeated."

"It's resolute," Drag Strip said. "And I'm not. Defeat_ist_ that is. I'm thinking."

"That's what Dead End's for," Breakdown said. He perched on the edge of the berth; their force fields made gentle contact, tingling.

"Yeah." Drag Strip refused to let himself laugh, but he couldn't help smiling just a bit. "You had something to say to me?"

Breakdown nodded. He fingered his pistol, holstered at his side. "I'm not running messages for you," he said. "You guys wanna… y'know…. I think Dead End's right, it'll end in pain and death and stuff. And he's creepy."

Drag Strip sighed. "If you made sense, it'd be easier to listen to you." He stood, and resumed pacing.

"Don't be so mad at Wildrider, right? He can't help it." Breakdown glanced up, then continued in a rush. "And don't be mad at me! I'm just here cause Vortex wanted… he wanted… uh."

"Out with it!" Drag Strip snapped. Wanted to frag Wildrider, probably. The insane glitches always stuck together. And how it burned.

"He, he wants to see you. Says meet him at his room at, uh, 2300 hours. Says you, uh, got his attention?"

A sudden and very wide grin appeared on Drag Strip's face. He'd won. Holy frag, he'd won! Then he huffed, of course he'd won, it was ridiculous to have ever doubted it. He turned his back to Breakdown, looking over his own shoulder.

"Can you see any smears?"


	8. Attention 7

It had been remarkably easy to get the Stunticon alone.

Not that Vortex had envisaged any problems. He'd spent weeks watching Drag Strip watching him. He'd given him the brush off time and again, just to see if he really was so block-headed that he'd keep on speeding after that finish line even when the line itself was constantly being redrawn. Weeks of watching Drag Strip coming back for more when any normal mech would have given up and found a softer target. Weeks of gathering evidence to make certain he was right.

It all added up to one serious infatuation.

But still, as Drag Strip lay trembling beneath him, his engine revving and rear wheels spinning so fast his axle was smoking, Vortex was surprised that the Stunticon hadn't been more cautious.

Motormaster didn't want the teams mixing, that was clear. Megatron's elite with Starscream's criminal glitches; it crunched his gears, and he wasn't shy of saying so.

After his fight with Onslaught, he'd lorded it around. As though Onslaught letting him win had been a real victory. As though a bunch of new mechs fresh off the assembly line were any match for true Cybertronians.

There had to be some way to bring him down a notch, and Drag Strip's infatuation provided just that opportunity. It was the crack in the team's fresh and shiny façade, into which Vortex could wedge a lever. It would only be one small step from there to turning the whole team against their overbearing, arrogant upstart of a commander.

And Drag Strip obviously had no idea.

Breakdown was suspicious, Vortex was sure of it. The grounder gave him nothing but sly glances, and a blur of cream and blue as his aft vanished around the nearest corner. But he didn't _know_.

It was only by luck that Vortex had managed to corner the bundle of nerves and get him to deliver his message to Drag Strip. And better luck that Breakdown had complied, probably delivering a warning as well. _Don't trust him_, perhaps, _he's bad news_.

But Drag Strip had followed his interface cable and not his combat subroutines. Or maybe the warning had given the invite that extra edge.

"Mmmm, so shiny." Vortex ran greedy hands over Drag Strip's chestplates, hooking his thumbs into the vents. "You wanna rev that hot little engine a bit harder for me?"

"Uhuh!" Drag Strip nodded, bucking as Vortex sent an intense bolt of energy over the connection. He complied clumsily, the vibrations erratic, and grabbed for the rotor blades bouncing above his head. Frag the grounder was keen. Keen and fast. From arrival to horizontal in 6.2 astroseconds, it had to be some kind of record.

For his part, Vortex hadn't expected the Stunticon to get his engine going. His gestaltmate, possibly. The one who'd leapt up to cling onto his landing gear on their last joint mission, and who'd clung on whooping and yelling until they'd crashed. Vortex could imagine having a lot of fun with that one. But not Drag Strip.

Strange how things turned out.

Vortex pressed down on him, feeling his way along that pristine yellow paintwork. The feedback from the interface spread a tingling heat through his midsection. Nothing to write home about, but it was all building nicely. He dipped his head to nibble the edge of Drag Strip's helm. "You like that?"

The Stunticon groaned, fists tightening on his rotors. "Hot slag I'm gonna overload!"

_Already?_ Somehow, Vortex managed not to say it aloud. Instead he bit down, hoping that a dose of pain might pull Drag Strip back from the brink.

He wasn't quite that fortunate.

"Uuuuurgh, oh frag yesyesyesYES!" Drag Strip's visor flickered, his lips curved in a wide, triumphant grin.

The backlash from his climax hit Vortex's circuits, causing a sunburst of pleasure, but it was fleeting, momentary. Slag.

"I, sure, yeah…" Drag Strip panted, his optics refocusing, staring up at the rotor tips. He stroked one gently, fingertips dipping into the dents he'd so recently made. "You didn't, y'know?" he said, altogether too coy for someone whose energy field was still flaring wildly.

Vortex propped himself on his elbows, and sent a rippling burst of charge along the connection. "Nope," he said.

To Vortex's surprise, once he'd finished squirming Drag Strip's optics narrowed, his victorious grin morphing into a determined frown. "Slagged if I'm letting that happen," he said.

Ordinarily, Vortex would already have lost interest. But there was something about Drag Strip's attitude, something that boded well for the next few joors. That, and this was all in aid of a greater goal. Sticking at it would be far more interesting than not.

"Oh yeah, Mr 'I just overloaded'," Vortex smirked. "What are you and your depleted charge gonna do about it?"

The Stunticon's optics flashed, his grin returning in full force. Lightning-quick, he snaked a hand around to grip Vortex's rotor hub, tugging him closer. "You'll see," he said, forcing what must have been the dregs of his residual charge through the connection. It was pleasant, but nowhere near enough.

"Oh yeah?" Vortex shot him another indication of his frustrated arousal. Drag Strip gasped, and the feedback sang through Vortex's interface array, causing his rotors to shudder.

"Yeah," Drag Strip managed. His vents heaved and his armour crackled, but his tone conveyed only confidence. "When I'm through with you, you're gonna know why I'm the best."

_Oh really?_ Vortex thought, but kept it to himself. Arrogance: so not sexy. But if this was going to work, he had to keep Drag Strip on side. Which meant resisting tearing him down, and that meant keeping him from saying dumbaft stuff like that. Vortex leant down, taking his first taste of those pale blue lips.

Drag Strip went to speak, but Vortex got in first.

"Just shut up and frag me."


	9. Unaccustomed Feeling

**Title:** Unaccustomed feeling

**Rating:** PG-13

**Content advice:** mention of slash, mention of interfacing

**Characters and/or pairings:** Vortex/Blast Off

**Summary:** Blast Off wakes up in an inconvenient position, and things get worse from there. A one-shot fic which explores an aspect of Blast Off's relationship with Vortex, set a few months after 'Taking one for the Team' and 'Attention'.

* * *

.

* * *

"Vortex," Blast Off groaned. "Get your foot out of my face."

There was no response. Blast Off sighed; Vortex was probably enjoying himself, the hum of his fans hidden by the roaring winds. It was disgusting. Even worse than this horrific organic planet with its filthy, arid plains, and it's mutable surfaces. It messed with everything; his instruments, his comms, his vision. Blast Off rebooted his optics, but no, the air was still grainy. Wonderful. And even more wonderful was his unparalleled view of one half of Vortex's cockpit, to the exclusion of everything else.

They'd crashed, that much was obvious, although he couldn't remember why. It would come to him, eventually. And in the meantime, he had the copter to deal with.

"I'm warning you," he snarled. "Get your pit-spawned foot _out of my face!_"

Again, no response. Blast Off huffed, then winced as a gust of hot air carried a myriad of minute grating particles up through his vents.

"Oh for frag SAKE!" He yelled. He closed them off, writhing to tip the soil and dust and Sigma knew what else away from his more complex internal parts. "VORTEX, GET YOUR SLAGGING FOOT OUT OF MY FACE, YOU STUPID, NO-GOOD WRECKLESS, PSYCHOTIC GLITCH!"

He shut down his vocaliser. Oh frag, had he really just said that? And so loud too? That wasn't like him. Not that he wouldn't say it in private, but in public? Even if 'public' in this case meant a field in the Southern states of America in the middle of a dust storm.

It wasn't appropriate. But neither was being tangled up with his team mate simply because a certain psychotic glitch's tail rotors seemed to have a magical attraction to his fuselage.

Onslaught should have known better than to send them out flying together; it never went well.

"Vortex," he said, keeping his tone level only by dint of a serious force of will. "This is your last warning."

But the storm chose that moment to abate, a slash of blue appearing in the fractured sky, and Blast Off suddenly understood why Vortex hadn't responded.

"Oh slag." He glanced around, frantic, unable for one long moment to work out exactly how he was going to get them untangled, let alone how he was going to stop Vortex leaking fluids all over the place. And that was without the issue of the head wound.

He sent an emergency signal to HQ, then forced himself to pause. This was nothing new. Vortex got himself into ridiculous, damaging situations all the time. At least he used to, before they got put in the Detention Centre, and there was no reason to expect that he was going to stop now they were out.

But something _was_ new, and it wasn't the injuries.

_It's just your reactions that have changed_, Blast Off told himself. _He's in stasis, he'll be fine._

He unwrapped himself from the copter, unbending rotors from his ailerons, untwisting Vortex's partially transformed tail boom from around his throat. It was the gestalt programming, it must be. He'd never had this kind of reaction before, so visceral, so… worried. He couldn't find a better word for it. He was concerned, not for the sake of the mission, or for his own sake should someone catch him with an armful of broken interrogator, but for Vortex's sake.

He didn't like it.

Sure, they'd interfaced. Sure, they had an understanding. But it was one born of sensible things like personal gratification and self-serving pleasure seeking. It was no reason whatsoever to get all psychologically touchy feely.

Not that they'd interfaced much lately. Since Starscream had given them new bodies, there'd been that incident in the brig, and that was it. Getting his cable half burned through on the energon bars had put a real crimp in Blast Off's libido, and Vortex had only tried to convince him otherwise once before getting distracted by a grounder of all things. Seriously, a _grounder_. Blast Off snarled at the indignity, and tugged the last of Vortex's tail rotors free from a tear in his neck.

It wasn't like Vortex to be put off by getting shot. And Blast Off had only shot him a little bit for pushing his luck. Stupid copter.

At least Blast Off's own wounds weren't seeping. Just the copter's. And there it was again, that rush of worry. Blast Off shuddered, and attempted to isolate his own thought processes from the emotions brought about by the combiner programming.

It was a curse, he decided, a punishment from Starscream. Perhaps it wasn't in the combiner programming after all, perhaps it was in the loyalty programming implanted after that incident with Bruticus's off switch. It certainly seemed designed to make them weaker.

Blast Off lay Vortex gently on the dusty ground. He fought to remain dispassionate, and for a good long moment it looked as though he would win. He needed to treat the chest wound first, stop the fuel and fluid loss. He took out a field repair kit, and clipped the severed lines. It wasn't the best of jobs, but it would do. What wouldn't do was his hands. They kept shaking, even wrist-deep in Vortex's abdomen they quivered. The thought of losing him… Blast Off shook his head and recalibrated his optics; this wasn't time to give in to unaccustomed emotion.

There was nothing he could do about the rotors. Judging by past experience, they would have to be replaced. Slag, what was it with copters? Too fraggin' delicate. He re-opened his vents, spitting out the dirt, and began to cycle clean, fresh air. He needed to be calm. He should ignore the blades, they weren't a priority. The priority was the helm.

Blast Off didn't want to look at it, let alone touch it. Something – he had no idea what – had cracked open one of the flanges, revealing the glittering array of circuitry beneath. Glittering and covered all over with grit, the dust from the storm clogged in a patina of energon and oil.

It was horrific, and Blast Off knew even as he thought it that he'd seen worse, he'd _caused_ worse. Sure, it was disgusting and distasteful, but it was only terrible because of this newfound empathy. He wondered if Vortex had the same; if that was why he'd backed off when Blast Off got tired of the constant touching and shot him. His engine rumbled a growl; stupid programming. He'd only wanted the copter to back off for a cycle or two, not for good.

A ping arrived from HQ; help was on its way. Brawl, probably, with a couple of med-bots. Blast Off's engine whined. Vortex didn't need drones, and he certainly didn't need Brawl. He needed Hook and Scavenger, and why the frag weren't they coming?

Blast Off decided that he'd had enough. Frag the programming and frag the wait. Grimacing at the pain in his own torn plating, he transformed around Vortex, enfolding the copter's inert form in the intricate mosaic of his unfurling alt mode. It was tricky, and he scooped up a good deal of the hated organic dirt at the same time, but eventually he got his damaged team mate in his cargo hold.

He took off, minding his speed and his angle of ascent, careful not to throw Vortex around. He didn't comm. Brawl. There was no point; it wouldn't get Vortex to a competent medic any quicker.

Instead, he plotted a flight path to the Nemesis, and prepared to hail Soundwave.


	10. Reconciliation

**Title:** Reconciliation

**Continuity:** G1 cartoon, Dysfunction AU

**Rating:** M

**Content advice:** smut, p'n'p and tactile

**Characters and/or pairings:** Blast Off/Vortex

**Summary:** Sequel to 'Unaccustomed Feeling'. After everything that hasn't quite gone right between them since they got out of the Detention Centre, it's about time something did.

* * *

.

* * *

In a gloomy storage bay, in a gap between shelves, Vortex squirmed. "I want to touch you," he whispered.

Blast Off tightened his grip on the copter's wrists, holding them high above his head. "No." It had been altogether too long, waiting for Vortex to be repaired, waiting for Hook to release him from medbay. Lingering in the corridor like some lust-struck Stunticon. He wasn't about to ruin things now by letting Vortex have his way.

"You used to let me."

"And you used to beg," Blast Off replied. There, he'd said it. He hadn't meant to; it was better to refuse the past. Better still to forget it altogether.

But it was out now, and there was no way Vortex would miss a hint like that.

Blast Off leaned forward, the heat of his engine reflecting from the copter's matte armour. "You want me?"

It could be like the old days, before the war. When they worked for Onslaught and not Megatron, when they came together not through loneliness or longing, or the compulsion of the combiner programming, but through a force of purely physical desire.

"You won't let me," Vortex said, as though it was the truth. What was he thinking? That Blast Off wouldn't let him touch because he didn't want him? Because this was some kind of punishment or lesson?

_You can't read me_, Blast Off wanted to say. _Remember back in Kaon, how you always tried and never quite succeeded. Remember when you stalked me stalking you, when we finally came to an understanding, when you didn't move on like you always had before. Other partners, of course, we both had those, but there was always us._

He couldn't say it. A slag-load of worthless sentiment, that's all it was. He never would have said it before the Detention Centre. He would have said, perhaps, 'lie still' or 'fight back' or 'do that thing you do to my ailerons'. Small and simple things, common ground that was at once familiar and comforting.

Things he hadn't said in far too long.

Had he expected to wake in the middle of his recharge cycle, and find the interrogator watching him, that sly grin on his face, his fingers edging ever closer to Blast Off's thrusters? Yes, he thought, he had. He'd wanted it.

He had been disappointed.

They hadn't fallen back into old habits. The Nemesis was not Onslaught's HQ in Kaon. It was crowded, unfamiliar. Every new mech was a temptation, and the copter never could keep his hands to himself.

"Why do you say that?" Blast Off asked. He'd taken too long to respond, but it wasn't as though Vortex was going anywhere.

Vortex shook his head, hope written in his energy signature. "Doesn't matter," he said.

_Liar_, Blast Off thought. Another thing he couldn't – wouldn't – say. Too intimate, too much of an invitation to open up on a level that would be completely inappropriate. They were bonded now, irrevocably tied whether they liked it or not. Team. The gestalt programming gave them strengths, but it also made them weaker. It made them vulnerable, gave them an enhanced sense of empathy for each other. Gave Vortex perhaps the first taste of empathy he'd ever had.

Blast Off channelled the heat of his own overtaxed engine through his ceramic shields to the copter's chestplates. There was a tiny click as Vortex's fans engaged.

"You shot me," Vortex said.

Blast Off pressed closer. "You went off with a grounder."

A squeal of metal as Vortex writhed. He hooked a foot around Blast Off's leg. "Only after you shot me," he said.

"I'll shoot you again if you don't shut up." Blast Off wondered how much further he could push before Vortex's Earth-made metal would buckle. It was so very tempting.

The foot made its way to the side of Blast Off's cannon, the scrape of metal spreading a tingling warmth all up his leg struts. Vortex grinned, and it was as though they were back on Cybertron. "Is that a promise?"

They didn't make it to Blast Off's room. They didn't even make it out of the storage bay. It was all so quick, so easy. Like the memories were subroutines, directing their actions, like the gulf of time meant nothing. The slide of armour, the subtle press and click of connectors, the first harsh stab of current.

Then the combiner programming kicked in, and the world fragmented. Blast Off groaned, venting hard. A thousand little thrills of data poured in through the connection. A flood of fragments, disassociated and dissolute, they sparked responses in his sensor net, made his engine roar and his plating heat. It was like in the brig, but better. So much better. He leaned against Vortex, dizzy in direct correlation with his soaring temperature.

Vortex quivered, crushed in the gap between shelves. His rotors clattered, his fingers curled and uncurled.

Blast Off held him up with one hand. The other roved, taking in the newness of the metal, feeling out the subtle dips where plating had been dented and not properly repaired.

"Inferior," he whispered, and Vortex growled. But the growl came with a fierce surge of energy, his optics blazing.

"You don't like it," Vortex hissed. "Do something about it." A pulse of heat as Vortex engaged his thrusters, using the lift to haul his legs up, wrapping them around Blast off's waist. "Tear me apart," he whispered. "Make them rebuild me."

"No." Blast Off snapped. It was too much effort for too little reward. He shuddered as the charge built, heat pooling behind his port, energy sparking between them. When he spoke, his words were buried under static. "Ons… Onslaught can do it."

"Mmmmmmmf!" Vortex ground against him, head back and optics suddenly dark.

"Frag yes," Blast Off whispered as the overload tore through him. Metal screamed, his fingers closing altogether too tightly around Vortex's wrists. But it didn't matter, nothing mattered but the heat and the thrill. And the release, altogether too long delayed.

Vortex slumped, his feet again on the floor, his head leaning against one of his rotors. "Does this mean you forgive me?" he said.

Blast Off didn't let him go, but ran his free hand along the next rotor over. The metal shuddered. "No," he replied.


End file.
